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There's a saying that feels remarkably appropriate at times like these: Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Taken from the mausoleum at Calvary Cemetery, Wendy Hunter and Peyton Whitney are locked back in their caskets, bound and gagged and transferred across down until they are removed from their holdings in one of the worst possible places to be roused from claustrophobic darkness in — a butcher's shop.

Cold air, hanging slabs of meat on hooks and bloody aprons hanging on racks indicate all of the earmarks of a dismemberment waiting to happen. The masked Irishman and his crew manhandle Peyton and Wendy out of their coffins and across the butcher's shop floor through the coolers, and out to another exterior loading area, where they are forced at gunpoint into the back of a waiting delivery truck of frozen foods. This ice-cold refrigerator on wheels serves as their home as the Irishman and his entourage prepare them for shipment once more.

It is in the back of this ice-cold delivery truck, surrounded by packages of frozen meat and plastic-wrapped slabs of beef that they find a moment of ungagged solace together. Still zip-tied at the wrists, it is only the fog of their breaths ansd the rumbling beat of the delivery truck as it thunders down rough and broken streets that serves as atmosphere for their unfortunate reunion.

The Irishman said they had earned an extended leave of execution, but there's no telling how long that can be.

Wendy's teeth chatter, pressed to Peyton as close as she can for communal conservation of body heat in the back of the truck. She's not dressed for this and already she's sure that she'll have frostbite by the time they're done taking them wherever. She'd discovered that she was far more claustrophobic than she'd ever realized she was, but then, most people are when they're alive and in a coffin.

"They're gonna kill us Pey" Spoken in stuttered speech thanks to the temperature.

Peyton shakes her head. "They're going to use you. Let them. Survive it, Wendy. That's all that matters. Survive it." Her whisper is fierce and determined, the raw sound of it surprising her. "I sent texts out but until they they put us in the coffins… I have no idea if anyone got them. If anyone's coming. The last they heard of — well, we were in Harlem. I have no idea where we are now." Her eyelashes are shimmering with tears that have frozen in this cold place. "As long as we have something they need, they won't kill us, okay? So make yourself valuable. Your power. It's the only way." She hasn't been very successful in her few attempts to use her own power, so her advice is for Wendy rather than herself. "Maybe if they know they can ransom us. They might need money for their cause, right?"

"Okay" Wendy can do that. "Only so long as they don't take you away. Don't kill you. They do anything…" And she won't do it. They can't make her tell them who's evolved. her own tears frozen on her cheeks as well, skin chapped. "I'm sorry pey. I knew there was a lot of evolveds in the bar, I didn't think, I wasn't thinking and then that group came in and I just… God it's all my fault"

"It's not your fault," Peyton says, shaking her head vehemently. She'd grab Wendy to shake her if she had use of her arms. "I shouldn't have told them your power but I couldn't think of a lie and I thought the guy at the bar, the guy who called the cab, I thought he already had it figured out so I didn't want to lie but then they were all surprised so I should have and I'm really sorry." She babbles a bit. "Just… do what they ask, and survive. It's all that matters. We'll figure out a way out of it at some point. Somehow."

"No, no, it's good, it's good you told them. It's keeping us alive Pey, it's keeping up alive" Fucking cold but alive. "God I want some drugs right now. Anything. I'd even take a bag of dust from Devi right about now. We get out of this, we survive this, i'm taking a trip on refrain for a fucking week" Wendy scoots closer, if that's even possible, trying to share what little warmth she has with the other woman. "Where do you think they're taking us?"

"I have no id-d-d-dea," Peyton chatters, suddenly overwhelmed by the cold. "I would have thought you'd be done with the R-refrain after the other night. One bad trip doesn't spoil the l-l-lot?" Thank god she was wearing jeans for once instead of a skirt, but her bare shoulders and arms are numb from the cold, not to mention the zip-strips. "Oh, God, Wendy, they tried to warn me — Cat, and Brian, those people. They said Humanis First would come after me, and I d-didn't believe them."

"I don't think they came after us on purpose" Wendy points out as she looks around at the slabs and boxes of meat. And then because she's the taller and longer limbed she shifts to kneel up and widen her arms as much as she can and slide them around Peyton's head and then shoulders. Closer, better to preserve, conserve, keep. "I think they stumbled across us. If I hadn't gone down, I don't think they would have got us"

"Right. They didn't c-c-come after us. We s-s-served ourselves up," Peyton says bitterly. "And then FBI guy is all 'Hey, you girls need me to come with you in this cab that you should have no reason to fear since you go in cabs every night of your life?' and I say 'No, thanks!' like an idiot. God." She closes her eyes and leans her head back. "And then we get to pretend we're vampires and now that we're frozen drum sticks or something." She might be starting to lose it.

'Vampires" Vampires. Maybe it's the hysteria of the situation, maybe it's the grasp for ones sanity when the unthinkable is happening but Wendy starts to laugh uncontrollably. "I vant to drink your bluhd!"

"I hope you like popsicles, 'cause it's fucking f-f-frozen," Peyton retorts, laughing too, and then the laughing becomes sobs again. Tears flow once more, melting those frosted lashes for a moment, only to begin to freeze again.

And that's how likely they'll be found, the laughter moving swiftly into tears. It's the natural progression and Wendy follows like a caboose on a train headed for Timbuktu. Black hair around her nearly bare shoulders.

The truck eventually rolls to a stop, air-brakes hssing out a squealing release, even as the distant rumbling of deisel engines and the beep of other trucks backing up can be heard thorugh the delivery truck's metal walls. When that back door rolls open, and rifles are pointed inwards towards the two girls, it's no longer a masked man that greets them, but rather a round-faced Irishman with a mop of curly red hair and a somewhat square jaw that has a few extra pounds on it. "Good evenin' my darling songbirds," the Irishman calls out into the back of the truck, "why don't you gents go up there an' pull me little birds out for me, hmm?"

At the request, other — still masked — men climb up into the truck, those at a distance still holding rifles as they pick up Peyton and Wendy by the arms, hoisting them to their feet as they're guided to the edge of the truck's bay door. Here, on the edge, with the dingy yellow glow of lamplight spilling down, it's clear the sun has set but hard to tell what time of night it is. But the smell of saltwater air, the sight of ocean-vessel shipping crates, and the lights of Manhattan across dark waters indicates they're still a goodly distance from home.

Peyton looks at the man, trying to not stare but to quickly memorize his features — not so she can identify him to the police, because that seems like an impossible dream, and she is not the man of La Mancha. No, instead she tries to memorize what he looks like so that she can focus on him — think of his face, think of his eyes, and wanting to see through them — if at some point she's clearheaded enough to use her power, to see things from his perspective if it will help them out of this some how. She averts her eyes before it seems like she's staring, watching her feet as the men pull her out of the truck. She realizes they're at the docks and she begins to tremble anew.

It takes a moment or two to extricate Peyton from within her arms but when she does, Wendy is frankly willing to go, just so long as it's out of the cold vehicle and into the warm air of the August night. Harbor, port, docks, something, near shoreline from the smell. It's only when you get close that you can smell the water. Wendy has no qualms about looking around, looking for the moon or any stars that might be visible through the New York smog.

Hauled out of the truck and hastily herded across the pavement towards an open shipping container, Peyton and Wendy find themselves once more at the Irishman's whim. "You see, darlin', this is gonna' be your new home." Walking behind Peyton and Wendy as they're marched into the shipping crate, it becomes painfully obvious that the interior has been designed specifically for containing living beings. A few small chemical lamps are suspended from hooks on the ceiling, a pair of chairs rests by a folding table, and sleeping bags have been laid out on the floor of it. Most notably, the soundproofing affixed to the walls is designed to keep out — and keep in — noise.

"You two lil' angels can scream yer bloody heads off all y'want here, an' it won't matter a hill of piss. So you two lovebirds do whatever it is you want in 'ere, an' when we're ready to come use you, well— we'll just come'a knockin'."

Taking a step back, the Irishman cracks a smile and folds his hands behind his back. "There's enough food in those boxes back there t'last you a couple days, it's all health bars and granola and whatever, but I think you two gals might not mind losin' a pound or two, yeah?" His lips creep up into an awkwardly friendly smile.

Peyton stares at the crate, then turns to look at the Irishman, her brown eyes wide with fear. "We have money!" she exclaims suddenly. "We can pay a ransom — I can wire you money, and I swear to God I won't tell anyone if you just let us go! I can't do anything useful, and her power, it's not that reliable, and money would do a lot more for you than we can. Please…" the last word is an imploring sob as she falls onto her knees.

"I have money too. Hun..Hunter Communications. They'll pay whatever you want in money if you just tell them. Tell them and they'll pay it. Heck i'll go to a bank someplace, we'll get you money" Wendy offers right along side Peyton. She too is looking at the shipping container and the claustrophobia rears it's head. "they'll pay whatever amount you want. Not even blink, they won't call the cops"

"Sorry, dove, we ain't in this for the money." There's a quirk of the Irishman's head as he flashes Peyton a smile. "We're not entrepreneurs, we're idealists." When it's said so simply, it doesn't quite sound like terrorism. "But'cher offer's real sweet n'all, darlin', but I'm pretty sure yer parents'll be needin' that money for plenty'a other things. But— " he hesitates in backing away, raising one hand with a finger pointed skyward, one slowly leveled directly at Wendy with a click of his tongue and a wink of his eye.

"You know what, I'll mention it to me boss." The Irishman grins from ear to ear, "Who knows, maybe we're not idealistic enough to pass up a free handout. Consider your offer…" he rolls one shoulder as his hands tuck into his denim pockets, "considered." Both of the Irishman's brows rise as he takes a few more steps back. "Be seein' ya though, darlin's…"

"No, please! Don't do this!" Peyton yells, hoping maybe someone is near enough to hear them before he closes the door, calling for help without actually calling for help. "Please, no!" The yell becomes sobs, and the tears take over again.

Wendy's not begging like Peyton is, that can come later, if there is a later. He'll consider it. Screw that she's in heels, the gangly limbed brunette rushes forward towards the redhead, try and bodycheck him, drive him out of the container and thereby herself out of the container too. She saw where the water was. A person can swim with no hands available. It's a little harder, but they can.

When Wendy's long-limbed form comes rushing at the tall, stocky-framed Irishman he catches her with both arms wrapped around her shoulders, taking a few step sback from her momentum before spinning with her in his arms, one hand moving up to grab the back of her head, the other reaching out to take her by the arm. The motion quickly winds up with Wendy slung from his chest and slammed face first into the corrugated metal wall — though thankfully a softer impact from the padded soundproofing. Fingers wind in her hair, and the adept gentleman squeezes his thumb against the soft muscle of her bicep and slowly wedges that pressure betwene bicep and bone, a painful pressure hold, even as thick fingers curl tightly in her hair.

"Ah just when we were gettin' along so well." He leans in, breathing out a hot exhalation at her ear, forcing her face harder into the padded wall. "Now I was goin'ta let you lovelies get'cher hands untied, but now I'm thinkin' not." Yanking Wendy back by her hair, the Irishman slings her around like a ragdoll, sweeping one foot in front of her before throwing her down to the hard metal floor of the shipping container.

His blue eyes are set onto Peyton, even as he slams a foot down against Wendy's lower back, grinding the heel of his dress shoe there. "D'either of you lovely ladies have any more partin' words before I leave you all here for the evenin'? Another outburst like that an I'm going'ta turn off the temperature controll'a this box an' you can cook in the fuckin' sun."

Scrambling back out of the way, Peyton cries out as their captor slams Wendy into the wall. She shakes her head adamantly at his question, moving back into the container. "Please don't, we'll be good, please," she manages to whisper.

It's instinct to struggle when you're pressed against the wall and in the face of a failed attempt at escape. But she'd had to try and her face burns now, followed soon be her knee's and hip as he maneuvers her to the floor none to gently. There will be no parting words from the black haired woman, just the taste of copper in her mouth and properly cow'd on the floor, curling up. She's learn her lesson and Wendy's closing her eyes and giving in to the hysteria that's rising.

"Be good now," the Irishman echoes with a cracked smile, "or else I'll make sure the two of you wind up on them meat hooks back at the drop-spot." Flashing a winning smile, the Irishman starts to turn, then stop and looks back with narrowed eyes towards Peyton and Wendy, "Oh, an' I'd make sure t'put you two up on the hooks while you're still kickin' an' screamin'." That's an important clarification to make as he turns out of the container and motions to the men with him. "Lock 'em in."

The double doors swing closed, shutting out the dim yellow light sfrom outside, followed by the grinding creak of the latch being sealed shut. Only the faint blue glow of chemical lamps flicker and burn in the metal container, leaving Peyton and Wendy once more trapped, once more zip-tied and bound. But this time, at least, they're not alone.